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She was humming as she changed the sheets from the smooth percale she liked to the fuzzy flannel he preferred. She imagined what she would do to him tonight, and her humming grew quieter until finally it ceased.

First she would undress him, slowly, slowly, kissing him softly as each bit of flesh became visible. “To keep it from getting cold,” she would say teasingly. They’d done this before — he would say, “No fear of that!” and they would laugh together as she began to stroke his skin with her warm hands.

Then she would push him slowly back until he fell onto the bed and she would take his penis into her hand. By now he would be fully erect, and it would jump as she touched it. They would laugh again at this familiar occurrence.

Next she would begin to lick him with little, teasing cat-laps at his skin, all over him, from his collarbones to his toes, but avoiding his crotch. She would roll him over and lap at his back, covering every inch of his skin, and then she would suck at his toes…

The phone rang, shattering the intimate silence. She picked it up. “Hello? Oh, hi! I was just thinking about you! When are you getting here? Oh. Oh, I see. Yes. Yes. Bye, then.” He wasn’t coming after all. Again. She was momentarily disappointed, but then she began to get angry.

“Who needs you anyway?” she demanded of the walls in a quiet but intense voice. “Damn you!” She was already wet and wanting from her imaginings.

She went downstairs to put away the wine she had gotten out for him. She seldom drank wine herself; she disliked the taste. She paused, looking at the bottle. It was almost empty. “Am I sex-starved, or what?” she asked herself, as she noted the phallic shape of the bottle’s neck. She picked up the bottle and one of her two crystal wineglasses and took them up to her bedroom and set them on the nightstand.

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At last, we’re alone. Ever since your return, we’ve been surrounded. Your friends, my friends, our friends. All day long, I’ve been looking at you. Relearning the way you look, the way you move. Wanting to have you to myself as soon as possible. Well, now it’s possible. We’ve seen everyone off, and it’s bedtime. So now, behind three sets of closed doors, we are alone.

We stand by the bed on the cold hardwood floor. I turn off the light and look at you in the cool moon-glow streaming through the windows. I’ve never told you how wonderful you look in your nightclothes, even though you’re only wearing a t-shirt and sweats, the same as me. I think you can tell from the look in my eyes how much I love you, how much I’ve missed having you with me.

We move to each other, and my arms wrap around you as yours encircle me. We stand, unmoving, feeling each other’s warmth, glorying in having something substantial to hold on to. No more dream-hugs, waking to find my arms clenched tightly across my chest. Now my arms are around you, and I know that you’ll still be here in the morning.

We move apart, ever so slightly, and look into each other’s eyes. Our faces move closer, and our lips meet for the first time in what seems like years. We kiss tenderly, then firmly, our passion restrained, then wanton. Your lower lip quivers as i run my tongue along it, then you follow suit, licking my lips as I taste you again, for the first time.

I move my lips across your cheek, nibbling at your flesh, approaching your ear. I reach it, and whisper what I’ve wanted to scream out loud this whole day long:

“I love you.”

The words, and the rush of air accompanying them, cause a wave to flow over you. I hold you as your body trembles. You hold me tighter and tighter still. Still we stand, together and in love.

Your hands loosen their grip on my body and I feel them traveling up and down my back, your fingertips playing across the back of my shirt. I do the same for you, rubbing your muscles through the cotton. Muscles sore from travel and heavy baggage begin to loosen as we rub each other, pressing our bodies together, kissing, then hugging, then rubbing some more.

I run a fingertip along the collar of your shirt, lightly touching your skin. Your breath catches in your throat.

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This is a story about my wife and me. I’ll try to tell it as it happened, but since 13 or so years have passed since our first meeting, some of the memories have probably gotten better with age.

It all started with a chili-eating contest at a local bar… You know, one of those silly things that one does on a dare. Your friends saying, “sure sign up, I’ll be there to help cheer you on.” Bull! It was just me, 2 beers, a quart of chili, and about 15 other contestants.

I won’t go into all of the gory details about the contest. The winner did it in a minute and thirty three seconds, and then threw up on the guy standing next to him. I did it in about 33 minutes.

Winning second place, was ok, I guess. The photographer was taking pictures of me and the winner for some newsletter, and he kept saying one more, one more. I looked at the winner, and he looked at me… We both turned around and dropped trou for the camera. He wanted to see a smile. How about a vertical one?

Time to pick up the beer cooler, and the six-pack of long necks, and head home. Another chapter in life is closed. Or so I thought.

A couple of weeks later I’m sitting at the bar of the local watering hole, nursing a beer. Checking out the ladies in the mirror that runs the length of the bar, I see one a few stools down that keeps looking at me (or at least I think she is looking at me), and then talking to her friend sitting next to her. I happen to glance over and see a stack of papers on her lap. Recognizing them as the newsletter from the beer distributor that sponsored the chili eating contest, I ask her “Is that the new SilverBird?” She says no, and then a look of surprise comes across her face. She then says “I know who you are, I’ve seen your picture before. Both FRONT and REAR!”

Now I’m trying to think fast. Where had she seen my picture before? Especially from the rear. She then tells me that she works for the PR firm that handles the SilverBird account. And that the photographer had brought in the proof sheets from the contest. She said that she had a good time looking at those tiny little pictures. A bit more interesting than the ones the photographer usually brings in.

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Okay, so I hate exercise–I admit it–I hate exercise. I’m getting better about it I met you. My body’s not the best but you’ve gotten me to at least move and finally after watching your buns and those great legs of yours, I brought my bike out of mothballs. You’re a jock, no doubt about it and I wish I had a body to match yours, but for right now I’ll settle for just being able to lose 2 lbs a week.

I have found though that you’ve caused my rides to be a little more exciting lately than I remember them as a child. Last week as I was arguing with myself about the many reasons why I shouldn’t go for a ride. Like I don’t feel like it…it’s too hot…I don’t want to…I need to do some paperwork for work…when I heard a knock on the door. And there you were in your biking shorts holding your bike. I was totally shocked because usually you never come to visit and you’ve made so many remarks about the fact that I ride too slowly that I assumed you would never ask me to go for a ride. But there you are. God, how I lust after you when you’re in those black shorts. They leave nothing to my overactive imagination. You’ve been out for a while because you’re soaked with sweat, making the curves of your muscles even more visible.

The look on your face is pure satisfaction. “So, want to go for a ride? I’ve done 40 miles so far and you can survive another 10, can’t you?”

Oh, shit, I think to myself, he’s doing well, he’ll beat me into the ground, but I smile and sputter, “Sure, you know I’m slow though” I’ve got to change and oh, damn, now he’s going see that I haven’t got a tan or even a shade of a tan. At least my legs are shaved. I put on my sweat shorts and my jersey and wheel my bike out.

I’m thinking, you’re used to racing and you’ve got a bike set up for it. There’s no way I can match you. I’ve got a mountain bike that weighs twice as much as yours. I outweigh you by a good amount. And you’ve been in training for months. Oh well, the pain’ll be over soon.

We start off slow and I follow you. At least you’re not cranking. You slow down and drift back beside me so we can talk. “How bout we take one of the side roads, do about 10 and then circle back to your apartment? You take me home in the car if I’m too tired to ride?”

“Sure.” A reasonable request it seems to me.

“Or you can put me up for the night.” And off you ride and down a side street laughing as you drop me in the dust.

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